Wesley “Bad Boy” Boone sin’ particular about doing homework, you under stand. My teachers practically faint whenever I sura something in. Matter of fact, I probably got the Tongest list of excuses for missing homework of any- one alive, Except for my homey Tyrone. He tiesto fet like he’s not even interested in schoo, lke there's to point in seadying hard, or dreaming about tomor~ row, or bothering to graduate. He's got his reasons. keep on him about going o school, though, saying need the company. Besides, I tel him, if he drops out and gets a].OB,, he won't have any time to work oa his songs. That always gets to him. Tyrone might convince everybody else that he's all chrough with reaming, but I know he wants to bea big hip-bop ‘nar. He's jost afraid he won't live long enough to do it Me, I hardly ever think about checking. out 'm more wortied about figuring what I want to do if live. "Anyway, I haven't had to drag Tyrone off t0 school lately, of make excuses for not baving =yhomework done, because I've been doing i.e the Harlem Renaissance suff that’s got us both going. ‘We spent a month reading poetry from the Hates Renaissance in our English class. Then Me. Ward-— ‘hav our reacher—asked us to waite an estay about it Make sense to you? Me neither I mean, what the point of studying poetry and thea waiting estys? SoT ‘wrote « bunch of poems instead. They weren't 00 shabby, considering I'd only done a few rap pieces before. My favorite was about Langston Hughes. How was Ito know Teach would ask me to read it cout loud? But I did. Knees knocking lke «skeleson on Halloween, embarrassment bleaching my black cheeks red, eyes stapled wm the page in froat of me. But! didi, Tread my poem. Guess what. Nobody Inighed. In fact, everybody ‘thought is was cool. By the time I got hack to my sea, other kids were showting out: “Mr. Ward, T gota ‘poem too. Can bring tin to sead?” ‘Teach cocked his head tothe ede, lke he was hear ing something nobody elie did. “How many people here have poems they'd like to read? he asked, Three hands shot up. Me Ward rubbed his chin for 2 minute. “Okay,” he said. “Bring them with you tomorrow." -After class Teach came over to my desk. “Great oem,” suid Mr, Ward. “Bur sil expect o sée an = say from you. Il give you another week.” So much for creative expression. ‘Long Ltve Langston BY VESLEY BOONE, ‘Trumpeter of Lenox and 7h through Jen B. Serle you sinply exlebrated ‘Blue end Bebop. and being Black before ‘emer considered bp, You dipped into the muddy water of the Harlem River sind shouted “taste and ee” that we Black folk be good «2 faning hope send ohing he fires of dreams deferred. You made ire the worl beard Bont beanyof le sugar ehildren, an Il toed back Black {eilors centaring ow to foreign places 5Your Sweet Flypaper of Life led na past the Apolo and on through 125th and all he other Herler sect you new lke the black of your hand. ‘You were a pied-piper, brother man ‘with poetry as your fate. Termy honor and pleasure to salute You, a true Renaisence man of Harlem ‘Tyrone Brttings ‘Schoo! ain't nothin’ buts joke. My moms don't want to hear that but if ie weren't for Wesley and my ‘ther homeys, I woulda’: even be here, aight? These ‘ite fol talking "bout some future, selling me T ‘heed to be planning for some furare—ike I got one! ‘And Raynard agresing, lke he's smart enough to know. From what I hear, that boy can’ hardly read! “Anyway, ifs them white folk that get me with this “facire mess, Like Steve, all hoppedup about work= {ng on Brosdway and telling me I should think about getting with it t00, Asked me ifT ever thought about ‘Fasting plays. “Fool! What kinda questions that?” I tid. Hl chrew bis hands up and backed off 2 few steps, “All Pom saying is, you're « walking drama, than. You got thet down pt, so maybe you should {ink about putting it on paper” When chat boy ddyed-his hai I bleve some of that bleach must've Seeped sight into kis brain. I grind my weeds and lower my voice. “Boy, get-out my face,” I el him Hye finally gets the message and splits. Pm ticked off‘ache even got me thinking about such nonsense a8 Broadway. ‘White folk! Who they think they kidding? They night as well go blow smoke up somebody eles youknow-wha, ‘cate «Black mans got no chance Jn this counny, The lucky if Tmake ito tweny-one ‘with all these fools running round wich AK-17s. “Hiere Lam one of the few kids T now whose daddy ‘ide kip oxt on hi, and didnt even make 210 thiny He was doing okay tle go blow away on 4 Securdhy. Blam! Another sain «long ae of diive-bys, Life is cold Forure? What I gos right now, sight here, spending time with my homeys, ‘Wish there was some future to talk about. Tcould wre smesome fun, Tm just about ready to sleep off the whole year ‘when this teacher sas talking shout poetry. And he ratles of « poem by some whic guy named Dylea Thomas that sounds an awl lot like rep. Now, I know me some rip, and I start to thinking T should show Me, Ward whet rap is relly all about. So Yel ‘im Pre gor a poem Pa like to read. “Bring it on lida” he sys “Asa mater of fay, fom now on, Tileave time for poetry readings athe end of every ‘month, Well cll them Open Mike Fridays” Next thing T know, Pm digging my old sep poems ott of any dresser drawer and bringing then to school Pax sbinking icant hue share them, eve ther no * chance I'l ever get to be e songwriter Afterall i's the one thing I could see myself doing if there really vwas 4 furore. And I'm thinking that maybe there ‘could be fT wanted it bad enough. And all ofa sud den, [realize To.